Little Fish
by Dividual
Summary: Hungry hands, turning soft and old. -AkuDemy, friendship-


**A/N**: Been a while, huh? I think my profile explains everything well enough. Inspired by the song 'Autumn' by Paolo Nutini... Cause really, every time I hear it, I think of Demyx for some reason, and I don't know why. I wish I had more ideas so that I could write. I'm too involved in my own characters, I guess. LOL. I... THink that's it. -crawls off into a corner-

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Kingdom Hearts franchise, nor do I make any profit from posting this story. Ever. Plzkthnx.

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He likes to tell me stories, when I come to visit because I know no one else will. He likes to tell me stories of things that have never happened, though he swears on his life they did, and I believe him, if only for his sake. I come and visit him every couple days or so, because I know he'd die without the contact, the attention, the communication. I do it because no one else will, because the rest of them have given up on him. But I don't mind, he's my best friend.

Every day it's the same. I'll be driving there, up to his house, and no matter the weather it will rain. No joke, every time I visit him the sun disappears to makes way for darkness, and the skies open up and out comes heaven's tears. So by the time I actually get there, everything is thoroughly drenched and the sky is gray and cloudy. I walk in and it's always the same- I have to let myself in, for one, cause he doesn't answer doors anymore. I let myself in and all the lights are off, every appliance, every everything. It's dark and I don't bother turning anything on, it wouldn't help, it wouldn't make a difference.

I always find him in his room, sitting in his chair by the window. And just seeing him there... It hurts. I never say anything, just walk in and sit on his bed. He's always doing the same thing, sitting in his chair, watching the rain fall with this look on his face. I don't know what it is, exactly, but it breaks my heart. He'll sit and watch with that... Open look. It's open, I guess, like that of a child. His eyes are always open and searching and waiting, maybe he's hoping the rain will stop and he'll see a rainbow.

He sits and watches, and he sings. To himself, or maybe because he knows I'm here, maybe. I don't know. I never know the song, but I hear him sing and I smile, he's so good. It makes me sad, he's so good. His little song ends and he turns to me to give me his painfully handsome smile, acting like he's been talking to me the whole time, and he comes to sit next to me on the bed. I hand him a cup of hot cocoa that was sitting in the microwave, waiting for me to deliver it to him, even though he had the time and patience to make it for himself. He's funny that way.

Some of the cocoa is drained before he smacks his lips and launches into one of his stories. I look around the dusty room- nothing but his bed and chair are used in here- and I just examine. There are broken clocks everywhere, each one showing a different date and time. I remember one day I had picked up one of the clocks, inspecting it, and I asked him what they were for, why he had all these useless clocks, after all, they were broken, they were junk. He'd stopped his story and stared at his nice shoes, and he shook his head, starting to cry. He'd said they weren't junk. They helped him sleep at night. Each time and date on a clock was an important moment in his life, a memory. They helped him remember. He cried furiously and I was unsure to do- the dates had to do with his stories, I knew that. But, I let him keep the clocks, and I didn't mention it again.

Everything in his room is coated in a fine layer of dust. Even his beloved guitar- 'It's a sitar, duh'- his prized possession, is dusty. I don't know why. He had more skill in his pinky toe than anyone who was ever musically inclined ever. So, seeing his instrument like that, neglected and untouched, it saddens me more. Sometimes I wonder where it all went wrong, and why he is the way he is.

I feel a gentle tug on my hair- oh-so gentle, he would never harm a fly- and I look back to him, and he's watching me. Watching, with those eyes. Those... fucking eyes. I look at him, in those eyes, and I see things I wish I could only see in myself. Once upon a time, those eyes could stop a train. He was restless, always itching for something new. A glance from him felt like a thousand voices shouting at you at once, he carried himself with such grace and love it echoed in everything he did, especially his eyes and his laugh. But nowadays, it seems as if all but one of those voices has died, and the one that's left isn't even his own. Something happened, and now he's quiet.

He asks if I've been listening and I just smile, pulling him into a lazy one-armed hug, because of course I was. I always do. He starts to retell a story, most likely one I've heard before, but sometimes it's new. Mostly they're of men that have frozen souls, forgotten in time and hidden by hatred, or something along those lines. It's always told in a profound way, like some code, and I'm blown away. I know he's young- I'm young, and he was born after me- and he's saying all this shit? Man. Bright, is what he is. He's too young to be saying such things, not old enough by any means, but he does it anyway. I'm always impressed. He's pretty much my hero.

He finishes his story and it's quiet for a moment, and he starts to cry again. He crawls back onto his bed and I follow, because it's protocol for me and friends help each other out. He cries and cries and he doesn't know it but I do too, because I don't know what happened to him and why. It always ends up the same, us laying here, his hands tangled either in the back of my shirt or in my hair, sometimes they're just on my neck. His hands are their own story- once calloused from his love and life of music, they're now soft and cracked from being idle for so long, always cold, always shaky. He held things like he was searching for something, gently, like he was hungry to find more, but I knew that was only because everyone and everything that had once made his life full left him behind and forgot him, save me.

Tears fall and the only thing I'm ever able to do is comfort him with small words, 'My little fish, don't cry.' Because that's what he is, my little fish. And by now the rain has faded and ebbed, though the sky never gets sunny. It stays gray.

We lay there for however long, but it doesn't really matter because this is our day, and this time is never wasted no matter what it's spent doing. He stops crying eventually and gets the hiccups, and sometimes that silliness in itself makes him giggle. I smile down at him and say, 'I'm glad I found that smile I love.' Because I have.

Somehow it's always late, so he'll just lay there and I tuck him in, pointing to all his clocks, and I tell him, 'All these memories, they're yours tonight.' He smiles up at me, and just keeps smiling, before making a fishy face at me and darting under the covers, ringing true to his nick name.

I hate to leave but I do, because it's always the same, and I think, since neither of us have anything to do, since he's broken and I'm the only one he has left, and I'm his best friend, it's always the same. And I think that's how he likes his life, however full of empty memories it may be.

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Har harrrr. So there, the end. Do me a favor and review, mmm, please?


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